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Children are dumb to say how hot the day is,
How hot the scent is of the summer rose,
How dreadful the black wastes of evening sky,
How dreadful the tall soldiers drumming by.
But we have speech, to chill the angry day,
And speech, to dull the rose's cruel scent.
We spell away the overhanging night,
We spell away the soldiers and the fright.
There's a cool web of language winds us in,
Retreat from too much joy or too much fear:
We grow sea-green at last and coldly die
In brininess and volubility.
But if we let our tongues lose self-possession,
Throwing off language and its watery clasp
Before our death, instead of when death comes,
Facing the wide glare of the children's day,
Facing the rose, the dark sky and the drums,
We shall go mad no doubt and die that way.
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Copyright © 2003-2008 Gunnar Bengtsson, Poetry Connection. All Rights Reserved.
Every time I read this poem it moves me. I especially love the idea of the "rose's cruel scent" and the "black wastes of evening sky". It makes the world seem so large and so uncontrollable. Like everyone else, I don't really like being afraid, but the poem reminds you of a time when you were afraid because the world was just so large. Perhaps full of more fear, but also full of more wonder. The poem gives you hope of recapturing that wild awe.
Gregson Vaux from United States